


In for Better Weather

by RichieBrook



Series: This Is Your Life [4]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Just because the topic comes up in conversation not because of other things, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Miles being very smug about how his life is turning out, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichieBrook/pseuds/RichieBrook
Summary: It’s bad weather for me sometimes - that’s just how it is. No one can really avoid being in a bad mood every once in a while. But Al’s thing, that’s not about it being bad weather at all. It’s about climate rather than weather, and his climate has changed entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again. This will probably be the last addition to this series for a while. It’s not very good and it’s all over the place, but it might be my favourite one, because it’s happier than the others. Written from Miles’ POV because I felt that was something that was missing from this series and because I thought it’d be nice to have something to smile about. (Also because I got to actually meet the man himself today and I’m very much in love.) It starts out a little dark, but it gets better. There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere. Gross.
> 
> As always, I’m very open to constructive criticism. :) Also, as always, I’m sorry if it’s terrible. I try, but this is definitely the worst one of the series. I just happen to like it best myself. I’ll have the second part up asap!

I’m not going to lie, life’s been treating me well. It feels good to be back home after months of working myself to the bone and uselessly fighting heartbreak after Al kicked me out of his house. Not to mention my impromptu visit to Europe to support that very same, albeit very depressed Al during the last few gigs of the Monkeys tour. It’s just good to be back, is what I’m trying to say. Even more so because it’s not just me living there this time.

He’s here with me, Al is. I’m still getting used to it, as I never expected him to say yes when I invited him to move in with me for the time being, let alone to go through with it. I’m not just surprised because I half expect him to end our relationship for a second time, but also because I know how much he likes his own place. It’s nothing like mine. Every detail there has a thought behind it, every piece of art, every chair even. Mine’s different. I like to think it’s somewhat modern and well put together, but first and foremost, it’s home. The chairs in the living room don’t match, there’s always a stack of DVDs lying around somewhere, and there are framed poster on the walls. It’s comfortable, and I like it here. I just wasn’t sure that he would, too.

I invited him because I figured it would be for the best for him to not be alone for a while, but having him around is having its effects on me, too. I’m calmer than before, when I lived here on me own, which, quite frankly, I simply wasn’t made for. I enjoy getting to wake up next to Al and coming home to him. Lately I’ve been working long, productive hours that don’t exhaust me half as much as those same long hours I worked right after Alex and I went separate ways. I’ve been writing a lot, gladly spending full days in the studio. I go for runs when I can, stop by the gym when I have the time, and I can feel myself getting stronger and healthier after months of running myself ragged. Life’s treating me pretty damn well. I have him back – I have Al back –, I’m making music again, I’m calm again. Things seem to just be falling into place. 

The situation is far from ideal, of course. There’s a reason why he’s here with me in the first place. He’s still completely out of it, by lack of a better term. His movements are slow and his eyes dull. I’ve never had to deal with depression meself, but it looks pretty fucked up to me. I’m not sure how he gets through his days. He mostly just sits in his favourite chair in the living room and sleeps more than is probably good for him. To see him sit in that chair all day every day, no matter when I come home from the studio, tugs at me heart. I should be taking better care of him, but there’s only so much you can do, especially because he won’t _let_ me do anything.

That doesn’t mean I’m not trying my best. I may leave the house and come back home at different times every day, but I try to stick to a routine for his benefit. I make it a habit to wake him up and make us breakfast before I leave, whilst he makes us coffee. After I come home, I wake him up with a kiss, change into my tracksuit and start getting dinner ready. In the beginning, I have to keep asking him for help, until he just starts trailing after me into the kitchen after I come home. It’s like living with a very tactile ghost, and as much as I hate that that’s the only way I can think of to describe him, it is what it is. He’s quiet, seemingly glad to have something to do when I return with the groceries, and always very glad to kiss me hello. His lips always linger, and so do his hands on me hips or shoulders. Touch is important to him, always has been. It helps him calm down, too, but I never really get to reassure him like that when it’s necessary, his pride pulling him back and away from me. He’s still the Al I know, but he’s an even quieter version of him. A version that won’t let me in and spends time in his head rather than at home. It’s as if a dark cloud has settled permanently above the house. It’s an eerie thing to witness. I like to think that it doesn’t really affect me own mood too much, as I’m honestly just comfortable being back home and having him here with me, but it’s always there, always noticeable. It worries me. Neither of us seems to know what to do to make things easier on him. We don’t get to simply hug and kiss everything better. I have no doubt whatsoever that he’s still Alex behind those empty eyes, but he’s always in that chair and when he’s not he walks around looking like he’s completely lost in his head. It’s no good. It’s not healthy. I slowly start to question his doctor and therapist, as if were their fault that he’s not improving. I start to question myself, and Al. The tour has been over for a while now. He’s in a stress-free environment with someone who adores him and with plenty of guitars, records and movies around, but not much changes. He simply doesn’t seem to want to feel better anymore. Then again, he doesn’t seem to want anything anymore, except to sleep and to curl up on the sofa with me after dinner. I can’t just fix him and clearly neither can he at the moment, but I’m seriously starting to wonder what will.

His therapy sessions aren’t going anywhere, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. One time, a month in, he asks me to go with him, as it’s easier to talk to me than to her, he reasons. He arranges it with his therapist, I go with him, albeit a little reluctantly, and we spend the better part of his hour talking about the Puppets tour from two years ago. Alex’ eyes have been dull and dark lately, but they light up at the memories. He doesn’t speak a lot himself, just gently swoops in to add to my stories when I skip over something. During what’s left of his hour his therapist means business though, and I can see why going here makes him feel drained, as he’s asked again and again for reasons as to why he thinks he’s feeling this way. She’s careful about it, very calm, too, but I can see the trouble it takes him to reflect. I don’t exactly tend to reflect on my own behaviour meself and Alex may be someone who’s in his head a lot, but usually he’s kind of like me in that aspect. He’s someone who lives very in the moment and doesn’t question his own thoughts and actions too much. I can only imagine how hard it must be to dig for reasons as to _why_ he’s feeling a certain way, when really, to him he _just is_. I can identify with that. Yesterday, for example, I woke up in a terrible mood for no reason at all. I proceeded to have a morning just as terrible as my mood, burnt our breakfast, almost drove my car into the ground on the way to the studio, and when I did finally arrive the song I’d been working on and had been looking forward to going back to felt completely wrong. All that despite the fact that I’d gone to bed feeling perfectly fine the night before, Alex had even been in the mood for some really good fun, and I’d slept really well. By the time I joined Al in bed that night I was perfectly fine again. As if nothing happened, and really, nothing had. I’d just felt like it was bad weather all day.

And really, that’s how I see it. It’s bad weather for me sometimes – that’s just how it is. No one can really avoid being in a bad mood every once in a while. But Al’s thing, that’s not about it being bad weather at all. It’s about climate rather than weather, and his climate has changed entirely. His days have gone darker and colder and generally, if you’ll pardon me French, shittier. You don’t really get to change the climate overnight, which in Al’s case makes things a lot more complicated.

I’m perfectly aware that I can’t improve Al’s climate, and clearly nor can he at the moment, but before I know it we’ve been living together at mine for a month, and I get tired of sitting around and hoping with all me heart that he’ll feel better soon. I’m not sure whether it’s a selfish decision or not, but at one point I decide that we’re not going to just sit around and wait anymore. Thus, I set out to change the weather; to make everything just a bit brighter, even if just for minutes at the time.

One night after dinner, when we’re putting away the dishes, I suggest we go for a motorcycle ride together. He’s hesitant, afraid the haze will cloud his judgment on the road. I know it’s not the safest thing to do, but I encourage him to go through with it nonetheless. We suit up, don our helmets, and I sit down behind him. He’s visibly unsure in the driver’s seat, much less steady than usually, and I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, both to keep him there as well as because really, I’m only human and I’d be a fool for not using the opportunity to be close to him. He straightens his back in front of me, and I’m aware that really, this is the least responsible idea I’ve had in a long time, but it’s also the best. We don’t go very fast, we don’t go very far, but Al regains some of his confidence along the way. When we stop at a red light, he reaches down to my arm around his waist, and squeezes gently. We go for another ride the day after and, when on the day after that, after a particularly bad night, he tells me it would be really irresponsible to go for a ride that day, we walk instead. Going for either a ride or a walk after dinner becomes part of the routine after a while, and rather than just complying and going through the motions, as is his custom with making coffee and cooking dinner, going outside always seems to wake him up a little. It makes me hopeful, I have to admit.

As if he hasn’t got it difficult enough, Alex tries his best to make everything just a little harder on himself. He asks me to just kick him out of my house already time and again, tells me to shut him up if I ever feel like he’s becoming reliant on me. I’m going to be honest here, it frustrates me to no end. Perhaps I’m just too simple a guy, but I don’t see the need for all the unnecessary drama that he adds to the already sufficiently unhealthy cocktail of depression, sleep and low self-esteem. If we’re being completely honest, I’m really not the only one who wasn’t made for being alone. Al definitely wasn’t made for it either, but he’s scared of _not_ being alone, too. Of allowing me in, even though we’ve known each other for years. It’s beyond me why he’s so terrified of commitment when he’s been in his fair share of long-term relationships already and his attempts to create more space between us – his attempts to make me believe he’s bothering me by being here – anger me and frustrate me and nag at me, until I explode and start yelling at him. He watches me with those dark, passive eyes as I raise my voice and gesture wildly around me. He seems incredibly unimpressed, but when I finally run out of breath, he nods once and murmurs: “I know I ‘aven’t been great company lately, and being here with you, in this state, means I’m sorta testing your boundaries, right? It’s like I’m testing you to find out how much more of this you’ll put up with.”

He tells me all of that like he’s reciting the bloody dictionary. I can’t stand it, and I rub my forehead, closing my eyes for a moment. “You don’t ever stop, do you,” I murmur. “What’s that even mean, Alex? I _invited_ you here. You’re not testing anything except my patience right now, trust me on that one.”

He shrugs, still giving me that passive, dead look that makes my skin crawl. “I’m afraid that you'll leave,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m always going to be worried that you of all people will end up seeing right through me. Hell, you already do.”

“So what’s the problem exactly?” I blurt out. “If I already see right through you, anyway? Clearly whatever you’re so ashamed of isn’t an issue for me. And this? This is just you being ill. You’ll get past that. I’ve known you for years, Aly. I like to think that I know you pretty well by now, and I’m very sure about my decision to invite you here.” I look past his shoulder as I speak, more than ready to end this conversation, but also very much not done yet. I simply can’t seem to get through to him. “I like that you’re mine,” I sigh, staring at the wall. “Always have.”

“Always have, huh?” Alex mutters, but really, neither of us is about to pretend that things didn’t start happening between us almost as soon as we met, years before we got together that first time, so I ignore him.

“I can’t keep telling you that I’d like you to stay,” I tell him instead, making a vague gesture with my hand. “Has it crossed your mind at all that it might not just be comfortable for _you_ to be here? It makes things a hell of a lot better for me, too, and quite frankly, I’m sick of worrying that you’ll make an attempt to cut me out of your life again sooner rather than later. Every single morning I half expect to just wake up to an empty bed and all your stuff gone, Al, alright?” When I finish speaking I realise there’s something else I want to say, something on a deeper level that scares me much, much more than Al simply leaving me house. I shake my head, push the thought away, not giving it any time to hook its claws into me brain, and sit down next to him, stretching my legs out in front of me. He doesn’t move, just watches me, his eyes expressionless as I turn to him. He doesn’t meet me eye.

“If you’re comfortable here, I’d like you to stay,” I say, lowering my voice back to a normal level. “If not, I’ll drive you back to yours in a heartbeat. Not because I want to, okay? I wish you’d realise how lucky I am to have you back. I’m just saying that I’d drive you to yours if it would make you feel better. But if you feel better here, you’re staying here, end of story.”

And really, when you think about it, I’m not too simple a guy at all. Things really _are_ that simple. I just seem to be the only one who sees it, because Al isn’t done. He never is.

“And me going home wouldn’t make you feel better?” he asks, and I want to grab him by his shoulders and shake, but I somehow manage to keep my cool and laugh humourlessly instead.

“I’m terrible at dealing with heartbreak, Al," I say. "You know me.”

He snorts, makes eye-contact with me for a brief moment. “You _are_ terrible at dealing with heartbreak,” he mutters. But he doesn’t react to any of the other things I’ve told him. I mumble an apology for losing it like I did and leave the room to get myself a drink. If I had a say in it, he’d stay at mine for the time being, where it’s warm and friendly and comfortable, and where he’s not alone all the damn time. Sometimes I simply don’t understand him. Just like he doesn’t seem to understand that I love him to pieces.

After a few walks and motorcycle rides, I manage to convince him to go for a run with me. He complains the entire time, which honestly just gives me hope. His cheeks are red, both from the crisp evening air as well as the effort it takes him to keep up, but he powers through, despite his pace getting slower every single minute. I know how exhausted he’s been and I should have expected him to have to take it easy, but I’ve never known Alex to say no to sports or trail after me like that. For a second I’m worried, but when I slow down and turn to him, it takes him only a second or two to quicken his pace and overtake me. I’m impressed and, quite honestly, relieved for no reason at all. It starts pouring rain once we’re only halfway and by the time we reach the house, we’re both soaked to the bone. Alex’ shirt clings to his body, see-through rather than white at this point, and when I look up to meet his eye, there’s a spark there that I haven’t seen in a while. He kisses me hard, his hands grabbing my shoulders as he deepens the kiss. As suddenly as it starts, before I even get the time to react, he pulls back, and before I know it, he’s off again, moving through the hallway and disappearing out of sight. I take off my trainers, then follow a trail of soaking wet clothes to the bathroom. I'm greeted with the sound of the shower already running and the sight of a very naked Alex running his fingers through his hair, his head tipped back slightly and his eyes closed as he stands under the spray. The sight is stunning, but I don’t waste any time. He lets out a offended huff as I press my now freezing body against his, and I mumble something ridiculous about sharing body heat. For some reason, that earns me another kiss, and another. His hands roam over my chest enthusiastically as he presses in close. You’d almost think I haven’t touched him in ages by how much he’s trying to rush things. I lean in for another kiss, one that’s much slower and gentler this time, and I feel him relax into it. He makes a surprised little noise when I sink to me knees, and what happens next makes his movements a lot less rushed and frantic. I may or may not take some pride in that. I don’t know how long we spend in the shower, but we’re both very much warmed up again by the time we get out.

No matter how we spend our evenings, I still find him in that chair after I come home, day in day out. I feel guilty sometimes, as I’m really doing quite alright for meself at the moment and I can’t exactly help that I’m feeling quite good about it all. My studio work’s progressing steadily and my home life has improved significantly now that I have Al here with me again. I can feel myself getting used to it. Apart from the situation where he’s too proud for a hug when I’m trying to console him he’s very affectionate, quite vocal about how he feels about me, and I learn to trust him; I believe him, despite my fear that he might leave. I can’t deny that it relaxes me to have him here. As for Al, I can actually _see_ him relax when I run my fingers through his hair or over his cheek. Some of the tension in his shoulder releases when I kiss him and he lets out a breath the both of us didn’t know he’d been holding when I wrap my arms around him. They’re little things, comforting gestures he could ask for from anyone, but he chooses to ask me for them. I’m not a fool; I can see that they don’t magically cure him, but I’d be out of me mind to withhold even the briefest of touches from him simply because he got it into his mind that he might become reliant on me – that he might be bothering me – when really, being close simply helps him feel better. It’s not a crime and it still frustrates me to no end that he thinks it is.

Still, we could be doing worse. Each evening we spend together is ridiculously domestic, as we eat, go for our walk or ride, and listen to records together. I an never really seem to stop talking, either. I tell Al about me writing, about the songs, about the weather, about whatever comes to mind really. He simply puts up with it at first, smiling and nodding mechanically, but after a while, he starts going along with it, joining in on the conversation and even asking me about my day when I get home. In the end, I’m really not sure if any of our nightly walks, rides, runs or other activities are changing his climate around for the better, but at least his weather seems to be a bit lighter from time to time, an that’s all I mean to achieve.

Overall, however, he still spends most of his days in that chair. It pains me, and I'm sure he's not all too happy about it himself, but perhaps we both get used to the idea that we shouldn’t expect there to be much improvement in his situation. Al starts to sort of give into it, which makes him strangely calm and even seems to enable him to do a thing or two around the house when I’m not at home. He’s still exhausted, there are always dark rings under his eyes, but he starts simply riding the waves, busying himself with tasks about the house when his energy levels allow him to, and drawing out our bike rides on days that he’s confident enough. The idea that he seems to simply be waiting it out reassures me somehow. If he expects it to end, I can believe it, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have accidentally turned this into a three-parter again. This was going to be the second and last part, but I've been editing it for the past couple of hours and it got longer and longer. I'm really just indulging myself by writing these to begin with, so I’d rather not shorten it. I just really have a lot of Miles (and Milex, but mostly Miles) feels, apparently.

The days pass by and it gets easier and easier to believe that Alex is not planning on returning to his place. He questions me time and again still, and I can’t help but get angry at him for it still, but he hasn’t made any attempt to sabotage us being together. He hasn’t forced himself to spend a single night at his own house, not even once. Instead, he’s started bringing over more of his things. He does it sneakily, when I’m away. As if I’d never invited him to come live with me in the first place. As if it’s something he has to do when I have no idea he’s doing it. Like he’s intruding. Still, no matter what he believes he’s doing, he goes through with it. There aren’t just his clothes in my wardrobe now. His records are on the shelves, mixed in with mine, his favourite guitar is here, and his nightstand looks like he attempted to pile up all the books from his shelves at home onto the tiny surface. I’m tempted to suggest that we buy a book case or move his to mine, but I bite the inside of my cheek whenever I feel the need to bring it up. I don’t understand the secrecy with the furniture, but it seems like he’s planning on staying rather than getting ready to leave, so I refrain from bringing it up, afraid I might change his mind if I do.

And yet, he really seems to not be going anywhere this time. It does take a little longer than expected for paparazzi pictures of us taken on the Monkeys tour surface, but they do in the end, and I show them to him reluctantly. Rather than withdrawing, Alex scrolls through them with a shake of his head and a dry chuckle.

“Told you this would happen,” I murmur, and he shrugs his shoulders. 

“Told you I knew it would. Not exactly thrilled that we can’t go anywhere without this happening, but we don’t look half bad in them; no reason for concern. Unless if you are. Concerned, I mean.” He falters for a moment, then adds: “Sorry. That’s not fair. I mean to say that I don’t know how this affects you; _if_ it affects you. I’ll happily make a statement saying I was dead drunk that day if this hurts your reputation.” 

I shake my head immediately, annoyed that he’s even suggesting it. “Never tried to hold up the pretence that I’m straight,” I say, giving him a look. “But you have.” 

“But I have,” Alex agrees, and shrugs his shoulders. “Looks like I’m not anymore.” 

And that’s that. He hands me the phone back and curls up in his chair as if nothing happened. And really, he might not be entirely himself at the moment, but I know him and I know that he would have reacted very differently – even in this subdued state of mind – if the pictures bothered him at all. I’m honestly slowly starting to think that he’s genuinely planning on staying.

  


There are more motorcycle rides, more runs, and soon barely a day goes by without us going for a walk for a bit. I have no clue if it’s doing anything to make him feel better in the long run, but he doesn’t complain, and he seems content to walk alongside me and chat about whatever’s on his mind, which is new. He’s been so quiet lately, and it’s a very welcome change. It almost feels normal again, and I the dark cloud above our house seems to be shifting, or at least getting just a tad less darker. I don’t mean to be a prick about it, but it’s about time, too. After so many weeks without anything really changing, even the tiniest shifts in Al’s climate are a relief.

  


At one point, seemingly out of the blue, he takes up reading. After I return from the studio one day, I come home to him with his nose in a book rather sound asleep, and then it starts happening more and more often. It makes me smile stupidly every single time. It’s been the most active – the most focussed – he’s been in months, and with the rate he goes through his books, it’s clear that he spends most of his days reading instead of sleeping or overthinking. If him chatting animatedly during our walks felt like an improvement, this feels like a breakthrough. I watch him fondly, distract him by peppering his jaw and neck with kisses, and savour the chuckle he lets out as he pushes me off of him. One night, as he finishes a 700 page monster of a novel and sets it aside with a pensive frown, I can’t help myself and move into his space. An amused laugh bubbles up in him when I lean down and kiss him hard. The next day, I get him a stack of books from the nearest bookshop and leave them on the coffee table for him to find before I go to the studio. I may or may not get a kiss or two meself after that.

  


Just hoping he’ll stay isn’t enough for me with time and judging from the growing collection of Alex’ stuff at mine, I’m not the only one who needs some clarity. I finally bring it up one day when I’m watching telly on the sofa, with Alex curled up next to me. His freshly washed hair tickles my chin when I lean down to kiss his head, and he gives me a contented hum in return. I mean to turn back to the telly, but instead, I watch him read for a few moments. Then, before I can stop meself, I murmur: “Isn’t it about time we moved your bookcase here?”

He looks up like a deer caught in headlights, and I simply _do not understand_ why he’s been so secretive about moving all his stuff here. 

“What about your piano?” I go on to say, because I might as well. Ever since he got it, Al and that piano have been inseparable. Or had been, rather. It’s just been gathering dust for a while now. He hasn’t played it once since we came back from his tour. 

“What _about_ my piano?” he murmurs, slowly putting his book aside and sitting up a little straighter. I can feel my frown deepen and really, I’m not sure where this is going until he says: “I realise that the plan was I’d come and stay with you for just a little while and I know that little while has grown into a rather longer while, but I’m not going to move my piano in here. You’ll never get rid of me again if I do.” 

And isn’t that something? Last time we had a conversation like this I was afraid Alex might end things between us again; this time he’s afraid that I might. It definitely explains why he’s been so careful about bringing in his things. Still afraid I’ll ‘find out on him’ and decide he’s not for me, then. I’m not sure it’s progress and it still rubs me the wrong way that he doesn’t trust me to stay, but at least this I can fix. 

“There’s a perfectly good spot for your piano in the study,” I murmur, my fingers playing with his long hair. “And there’s plenty of room for a bookcase right here in the living room. The place could use some of your stuff. I’d rather have it be our place than just mine if you’re really staying and all. Just don’t turn it into a replica of your house.” 

He can’t help a smile at that. It’s a hopeful one, that smile, and it makes me just as hopeful in return. “So we can bring in the piano? Have it stay here?” he ventures. 

“I was under the impression that that was the plan from day one,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, as if it’s no big deal at all. He nods once. It feels final.

  


It’s not just the time we spend outside, or the books he goes through that make his days a little brighter. Music does a good job at that, too. As soon as we have the piano moved to mine, he abandons his favourite chair and starts favouring the piano stool over it. I get used to finding him in the study rather than in the living room after I come home from the studio, his long hair falling over his eyes as he leans forward and tries out different bits and pieces. I curse myself for not having brought in the piano sooner. It clearly brings him joy – actual joy that he can feel, adding to growing list of other things that do. I sit with him one night and rather than putting on a record like we usually do, we share the stool as he plays a Leonard Cohen song that I hadn’t heard since our Puppets tour. I sing along quietly, scared I’ll pull him from his focus, scared I’ll wipe the concentrated frown off his face, or the teary glaze from his eyes. When it’s over, he turns towards me and kisses me like there’s no tomorrow. I do wipe his tears away at that point, and I think we’re both secretly happy that he’s crying. 

“Look. I still work,” he laughs through those tears, and I shake my head, smiling. 

“You’re an idiot, Al.” 

“I know,” he grins, wiping away the tears with the tips of his fingers. He looks tired, but somehow he looks more real than he has in weeks. I use my thumb to wipe away a stray tear on his cheek, and he catches my gaze, holding it for a moment. Despite the tears his eyes don’t look sad in the slightest. There’s that spark that I love so much, and a certain sharpness that I almost forgot used to be there. That dull, dark, _depressing_ glaze is finally gone for a bit, and I catch myself staring, falling in love with those clever eyes all over again. 

“I know that,” he repeats, clearly unaware. “Now, are you actually going to sing when I play another, or am I going to have to strain me ears to hear that gorgeous voice of yours again?”

I do sing with him after that. He plays a Bowie song, his fingers flying over the keys effortlessly. I sing, and the fucker is actually _smiling_. He’s grinning that cheeky grin of his that I haven’t seen in a very long time, and I let out a laugh, causing me to have to skip a few words in the middle of a sentence. Al looks up at me, delighted. It’s almost like being back in the studio together.

  


After that night, the issue of Alex being scared he’s overstaying his welcome ends up in the back of my mind. I don’t doubt that he’s still worried I’ll change me mind about him, but he seems hopeful, too; more at ease. He moves freely about the house now, spends the time that I’m away filling the bookcase that we brought over, and more and more often, I come home to dinner already on the table. I find myself relaxing into it all, slowly forgetting that I should expect him to pack his things and leave. I make considerable progress writing songs too, and Alex even starts tagging along to the studio every once in a while. On the first few days he sits by idly, leafing through a novel, scribbling on the back of a magazine and strumming his guitar. Every evening when we leave, he hooks his arm in mine and lights us both cigarettes as we walk home side by side, as if that’s the way it’s supposed to be (and, if you ask me, it really is). I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he seems to be taking up his usual height again; his clothes (and, I have to add, my white Adidas jacket) seem to fit him better again despite him not having gained or lost weight. It’s like he’s real again.

The week after that he only goes with me one time. It’s a Friday. I’m not half as motivated to get to work as I usually am and my mind is anywhere but in the studio with me. It doesn’t bother me; we all have days on which things don’t really work, but somehow I can’t seem to allow myself to just call it a day and go home already. So I power through and get absolutely nothing done. I can see Al shift impatiently in his seat from the corner of me eye, but try to pay him no mind, which is really damn hard when he’s looking the way he does, with his hair all slicked back and a pair of jeans so tight it should be illegal. I turn my back towards him against me own better judgement; it’s not as if I can’t still see him. He manages to not keep me from my work for a good twenty minutes after that before I feel him come up behind me. He slides the back of the magazine he’s been scribbling on on and off over the past few days onto the table and asks me if I could arrange the music to the words. I forget about the tight jeans for a moment as I glance over the words, unsure. They’re not the happy kind. I read it again. Al fidgets with his pen. I can feel his eyes bore into the side of me head. 

“You sure you don’t want to just write the music yourself?” I ask, looking up to meet this eye. “Seems kind of personal, this. I don’t know, Al.” 

He shakes his head. “I’d really rather you did it,” he says. “I know you’re working on your own stuff right now and there’s absolutely no rush. Next year would be fine, too, for all I care. Maybe it can be a Puppets song some time in the future. Maybe it can be something I’ll just play at home when I feel like it. It’s fine either way. I’d just really like you to be the one to write the music.” 

I stare at him, unsure of what to say. I have half a mind to tell him that he’s being a tad bit too romantic at this point; that he should simply do it himself. It’s not like I can say no to him though, so I nod once and use my phone to snap a quick photo of the lyrics. I hand him back the original, wondering why on earth I’m saying yes to this. I’m guessing it’s at least partly the fault of those ridiculous jeans.

Despite Al saying that next year would be fine, it becomes a side project of mine right away. We’ve written plenty of songs together, but it’s something else to be handed something so personal and to be expected to do it justice. I don’t consider myself a great guitar player and I start out a little self-conscious, in the comfort of our home rather than in the studio. The words are less eloquent than Al’s writing usually is; it’s a little more raw, a bit more rough around the edges. Still, it’s complex enough that if I didn’t know better I wouldn’t have guessed what it was about, which makes my work both more interesting and all the more complicated. I set out to match it with an equally raw sound – a sound that riles me up in the worst way and makes my skin crawl, like I imagine Alex must have been feeling over the past couple of months. I don’t know why it riles me up as much it does, but it makes me furious and I’m not going to lie, I absolutely fucking despise it. I don’t tell Al; in fact, I don’t let him in on anything. He isn’t much help, anyway. I know he does it on purpose, as he really wants me to do it, but he doesn’t even give me any hints as to how he wants it to come out whatsoever. He’s usually not even in the same room when I work on it, and when he is, he’s busy reading or writing or watching my fingers move across the strings, which he does so shamelessly that it always makes me grin despite it all. He usually ends up with his back against the wall not too long after that, as I snog him senseless. It never gets old, that one.

  


Months after the first one, I very reluctantly agree to join him at another appointment with his therapist. I don’t think it’s my place to be there, in a place where he grapples with words and gets visibly embarrassed when he can’t seem to express himself. It’s flattering that he trusts me, but it also feels like I’m crossing a line by going with him. And yet, he discusses it with his therapist and I find myself walking with him towards the office on the proposed date. We smoke on the way there, and he’s the one talking for a change, murmuring something about taking me out to dinner. I agree, not thinking much of it as I’m perfectly aware that he won’t, and wrap an arm around his waist.

We leave plenty of space between us when we sit down by the desk that must haunt Al in his dreams by now. I don’t know why he wants me here today of all days and I’m genuinely uncomfortable butting in on his therapy session, but he asked because he thought it would make things easier today, so I’ll deliver. However, I’m going to be in the background as much as I can until he makes it clear that he needs me. He sits up straighter in his chair than he did last time I was here with him, which makes me smile. I’m perfectly aware that he hasn’t been able to shake his blues entirely, but I’ve _seen_ him, haven’t I. I’ve seen him read and make music and write and cook dinner and go for walks. The Alex I know would rather fill his day with dozens of things to get done, but isn’t it progress that he’s actively getting himself through the day these days?

When the conversation starts, I don’t watch. I stare at a point behind the woman and listen wordlessly as she asks Al how he’s been doing. 

“I’ve been feeling really calm, he says, and his voice is calm, too. I want to reach out and wrap him in my arms, but I don’t move a muscle, still painfully aware that I don’t belong here. Sure, Al needs support, but I strongly doubt that this is the healthy kind. 

“You brought Miles again today,” she says, and I sit up a little straighter, not wanting to seem disinterested. “Why’s that?” 

See, that’s what I’d like to know as well. I briefly glance in his direction, but Al doesn’t look at me. He stays silent for a while, then shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve given him plenty of reason to believe that I’ll leave again, and I wanted him to see that I’m really trying, and that I’m getting better. I’m still a little – subdued, if you will, but it’s nothing like it was before. I think I want to go back into the studio soon. I think I want to go out to a pub again, or go on a trip, maybe. I’m still tired and it frustrates me that I can’t do more than a few things a day, but I’m alright otherwise. I really am. Maybe I just wanted him to know.” 

I blink, those words hitting me like a brick for a reason that I’m not sure I understand. She smiles encouragingly at him, but I can’t even look at him. His words seem to just wrap themselves tightly around my heart, making it flutter uncomfortably. I stare at the wall. 

“The tour and the breakup with Miles overwhelmed you,” she says with a shrug. “Happens to the best of us. It’s most likely not the reason for you feeling the way you do, but it didn’t help – we’ve already established that. Your life right now seems a lot less stressful.” 

“It is,” Al agrees. “It’s good to be able to spend time at home. I wasn’t resting up so much as just dwelling in the darkness for a while, if you will,” – he chuckles dryly, but I’m not sure what’s funny – “but now that that’s passed for the most part, it’s just really nice to rest up for a bit. Do some things I didn’t have the time for before.” 

“You’re still out of it at times.” I can’t help myself. I just blurt it out, like I tend to do. I don’t belong here and Al’s words are positive and hopeful, but they also feel like someone's punching my chest repeatedly. I don’t understand, and yet I can’t seem to stop talking. “Sometimes you just _sit_ there for hours on end, and I’m half afraid you’ll off yourself. Hell, not even half afraid; just fully fucking terrified that you will.” It comes out louder than I mean to, and I press my lips together in a thin line when I realise what I’ve just said. I was under the impression that none of it affected me; I was convinced I’d effectively pushed _that_ thought to the back of me mind, but maybe I haven’t been quite as successful as I thought. The both of them turn to look at me, as if they’d forgotten I’m here. Al arches his eyebrows, and I can _see_ him think. He shouldn’t have to bloody think about a reply to that. He should get up, tell me everything’s alright and snog me. That’s what he should do. He doesn’t, though. He just sits there, opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Alex.” It’s his therapist who urges him to speak, not me. “Is there anything you’d like to say?” 

“I’d never.” It’s beyond me how calm he sounds still. He turns to me, visibly shaken, but he hasn’t the right. I shouldn’t have come.

“Mi. Hey.” He tries to catch my eye and I let him. I honestly don’t want to be here and it’s beyond me why his therapist encouraged him to have this happen again. Talking about the Puppets I can do. This is something else entirely. 

“I’d never, Mi,” Alex repeats. “It didn’t even cross me mind to do anything like that. Not once. It’s not like that. I didn’t know that that was your mind, or I would have flat-out told you.” 

I’m not sure how he does it, but this time his words calm me down rather than rile me up. I hesitate. “I just thought that’s part of it,” I venture. “Obviously, I’ve been scared that you’ll break me stupid heart again, but – well, not half as scared as I am that you’ll be gone sooner rather than later.” I only realise how true it is when the words leave my mouth. This must be how Alex feels, being analysed all the time. I swallow thickly. 

“I’ve just been worried,” I say. “But I’m so fucking proud of you. So there’s that.” 

Al nods. This time it’s him who won’t look at me. “It was never like that,” he repeats. “I told you about the fog, right? That’s all there is to it. Just a heavy load of fog that’s been making me limbs feel heavy and my brain feel exhausted. It was never like that for me, Mi, and I’m sorry if that’s what I made you believe. I’m sorry about how hard I’ve been making things on us, too.”

And maybe that’s all I needed to hear, but I don’t understand why we couldn’t simply have had this conversation at home. I give him a small, sideways smile to tell him it’s alright. I have nothing to say. Not with her there. I feel like bawling my eyes out, to just be really fucking honest about it. I know Alex can see it and I’m grateful that he doesn’t push it. He turns back to his therapist, excusing me from the conversation. His cheeks are flushed in embarrassment and I feel suddenly exhausted, but I’m glad for him being so frank. It was about damn time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a happy chapter! Sorry for the wait!

We leave in a hurry once his hour is over. I spend the entire way home berating myself for letting the situation with Al get to me as much as it has. Not a word passes between us, not when Al unlocks the door, nor when I accidentally close it behind us with so much force that the walls shake. Alex’ head snaps up and I give him an apologetic smile, which he returns with a nod. Wordlessly, he leads me into the kitchen and starts making us tea. While we wait for the water to boil, he leans against the counter and looks at me, that sharp gaze studying my face like it used to all the time before his eyes got that dull glaze over them.

“Right,” he says, pushing himself away from the counter. “Are you okay, Mi?”

It’s the first time he’s asked. I want to nod, but I don’t.

“I shouldn’t have brought you.” Al comes to a halt in front of where I lean against the counter. He reaches out to briefly touch my hip, watching his own fingers graze the rough fabric of my jeans. “It’s not something people do,” he murmurs. “I just thought it might be helpful. I meant to make you feel more at ease; I thought I might be able to explain that I’ve been doing much better. Clearly I achieved the opposite.” He clears his throat. His eyes won’t meet mine. “I apologise. Are you okay?”

I hesitate. I’ve absolutely no reason to complain. “You’re here, aren’t you,” I reply. “You’re here, the album’s coming along nicely and - it’s all good, Al, isn’t it. I’ve been happy, but – ” I shrug my shoulders. It’s bad enough that we had one of these conversations; I could do without a second opportunity to make a fool of myself.

“But it’s been tough for you, too,” Alex supplies. “I haven’t stopped to think about that often enough.”

He pushes a steaming mug of tea into my hands. I stare at it for a moment, then set it aside.

“I’m sorry,” Alex murmurs. He’s still standing in front of me, clearly not planning on going anywhere until we more or less resolve this. But what is there to say? I made a ridiculous lapse of judgement and apparently it’s been bugging me enough – without me even realising it – for me to blurt it all out during a therapy session that wasn’t even mine. I feel like an idiot. A very sad, very shaken idiot. As if voicing my fears of him leaving altogether suddenly made them real.

Fuck it, I decide, to hell with it. I push myself away from the counter and wrap both arms around Alex, who tenses in surprise, but reciprocates the gesture. My grip on him tightens, and he’s solid and real in my arms. I cling to him like he hasn’t allowed me to for a very long time. His hold on me is just as tight, and one hand comes up to cradle the back of me head, holding me close.

“I was serious, earlier,” he murmurs, and he’s so goddamn calm. “It’s nothing like that. It never has been, I promise.”

Whereas I kept myself calm earlier, I do start sobbing like a baby at that point. I’m not even embarrassed about it. I never realised how scared I’ve been for him, writing it off as me simply being scared that he’ll pack up his things and leave again. It goes without saying that I’ve been more than a little nervous about that, too, but no matter how bad I might be at it, I _can_ deal with heartbreak. I wouldn’t know how to deal with this other thing that has clearly been festering in my mind for the life of me.

Alex doesn’t loosen his grip and presses his lips to my cheekbone. “I know these months haven’t exactly been easy on you either,” he murmurs. “Should have asked you about that more.”

I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I wipe away me tears. “Are you kidding? I’ve been doing okay, Al. More than okay.” But I know what he means and clearly he does too, as neither of us lets go of the other just yet. We share a few lingering kisses as he presses me up against the counter. He runs his fingers through my hair and smiles against my lips; slips his hand under my shirt and relaxes against my chest. We just stand there for a while and I can feel the tension in my neck and shoulders that I didn’t even know I was carrying dissipate. He stays right there, making sure there is absolutely no way in hell that I might start believing that he’s going somewhere. It’s all really fucking pathetic, but in all honesty, this might be the first time that I truly believe that he isn’t.

When I wake up from a fitful sleep the next morning, Alex’ side of the bed is empty. The smell of freshly brewed coffee reaches me before I get the time to start worrying and I hum quietly, pressing my face into my pillow, very tempted to sleep a while longer, an idea that goes out the window as soon as I catch a glimpse of my alarm clock and find that it’s nearing noon. I curse under my breath. So much for my day at the studio. I climb out of bed reluctantly, pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and start following the scent of coffee into the kitchen.

The sight I’m met with makes me smile. Al’s making breakfast, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and an old shirt of mine, humming quietly under his breath. I wish I had my phone on me so I could snap a quick picture.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he drawls, keeping his back turned towards me as he flips a pancake.

I shake my head, smiling. “I’m late. You should have woken me up.”

“No, I shouldn’t have,” he says. He does turn to me then, and smiles back at me, still looking a tad sleepy himself. His hair is still mussed and the near-permanent frown on his face is not yet present. He looks stunning and I don’t waste any time before telling him just that. His smile widens, and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of seeing him like that.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” he says. It’s as if we’re feeling it out, trying to establish if the other’s alright after yesterday. For once however, I’m not worried. There’s nothing left to talk about; nothing I feel like bringing up. Alex probably feels the same, as he just huffs out a quiet laugh, turns off the cooker and beckons me to come closer with a small tilt of his chin. I walk towards him and let him pull me close as soon as he can reach me. He winds his arms around my waist, shakes his hair away from his face, and leans in to kiss me. I watch him for a moment, bemused, then get distracted when he deepens the kiss and I feel the wet slide of his tongue against my lips. It makes a pleasant shiver run up my spine, and I part my lips slightly. He takes his sweet time exploring my mouth, but there’s a fire to it that is fuelled as soon as his hands come up to rest on my bare chest. His teeth nip playfully at my bottom lip and I open my eyes for a moment, grinning into the kiss as those big, dark eyes watch me intently. We both know exactly where this is going and his lips on mine are all that’s keeping me from just carrying him off to the bedroom already. It vaguely occurs to me that we haven’t had a decent shag in a while and really, that needs to change. I press him closer, drawing a moan from his lips as my hands cup his arse.

“You want to take this to the bedroom?” he murmurs against my lips, a smile tugging on his even as he speaks. His lips make their way over my cheek, to my ear, and he presses careful teeth into sensitive skin. I gasp quietly as I feel his arousal press against my thigh, and he breathes out.  
“You know what I want, Mi?” he asks, his voice low. “I think I’d like to be on top this time – that’s what I want; I want to fuck you.”

The words seem crude and unlike him, but something stirs deep inside of me at the thought. Still, I hesitate. It’s usually Alex doing the taking; he’s much more relaxed about it. I tend to freeze up as soon as my body realises what is about to happen. Al knows, of course. He nibbles on my ear, as practiced fingers slide down and palm me through me trackies.

“I’ll make it good,” he promises. “I know what I’m doing, Mi. You won’t even have the time to worry, that’s how good it’ll be.”

I can’t help but laugh, and he pulls back, an offended pout on those full lips. Jesus Christ, I love him. I nod once, just as nervous as a few moments ago, but about ten times more eager. The grin he gives me in response alone is worth it.

It takes us a lot longer to get to the bedroom than it should, as Alex clearly figures that every wall is the ideal surface to push me up against. I gladly let him; give in as he walks me into the bedroom and pushes me onto the bed unceremoniously; as he takes off me tracksuit bottoms without any preamble. I chuckle at how rushed he is, which earns me a mocking grin as one of those talented hands gives my cock a teasing stroke. I bite back a moan and he arches an eyebrow, his eyes darkening. He’s made his point. I watch him take off his shirt and shorts and sit up impatiently, cupping his chin as I pull him closer for another kiss. He tuts quietly. Careful hands push me back down without breaking the kiss, then press my wrists into the mattress. I grin, shaking my head, fighting against his grip half-heartedly. Back when we were younger I used to be able to overpower him without even trying. Now, not so much. I don’t think I mind. Hell, his lips travel over my neck and chest, undoubtedly leaving a mark or two, and I’m pretty damn sure I don’t mind. His hips roll playfully against mine and he grins mischievously as I grow harder against his leg. It’s exactly like things used to be already; exactly like they should be. There’s nothing serious about it, but it’s urgent nonetheless. It’s fun, and completely indulgent. Al takes his sweet time coaxing every damn response from my body that he’s after, playing me like I’m one of his stupid guitars. I turn into a mess under his lips and fingers, as he nips at my neck and drags the pads of his fingers over my nipples, then slowly downwards. I swear I’m in heaven.

At last, when I think I might just topple over the edge already, his impatience gets the best of him. He moves back and I watch him coat his fingers with a generous amount of lube. It’s enough to make me tense up despite the state I’m in. It’s been way too long. Maybe I’ve always sort of felt that it was more Al’s thing to be in this position, but after all this I’m really not that sure.

“You’ll take it slow, right, or I’ll flip us right over,” I threaten, and he snorts.

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

And that’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one, but before I can even think of how to get him under me, one of his fingers trails down. He smiles at me, his eyes glittering, and he leans forward to distract me with wet, obscene kisses that are enough to have me pressing into the hand on me cock. He coaxes me open with gentle fingers, and suddenly I’m really fucking glad that he didn’t give me the time to flip him onto his back instead. My breath hitches in my throat as he curls his fingers just right, my eyes fluttering closed on their own accord.

“Mi,” he says, and his voice is low and rough and gorgeous. “Mi, open your eyes, love. Lemme see you.”

So I open my eyes, meeting his as soon as I do. His pupils are blown and there’s nothing in those eyes but lust and pure fucking love. My hips snap up into his hand on their own accord as he fixes me with that gaze and a provoking smile on his lips. He toys with me, that crooked grin widening as he hits that sweet spot within me repeatedly. By the time he enters me, I’m so close to the edge that the pleasure easily overrides the slight sting, and I laugh breathlessly as he hovers above me and stifles my moans with a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. I kiss him back eagerly as I move with him. Sweat beads on both our foreheads. His hips move in a steady pace. My body feels like it’s made of liquid. I gasp out his name, tossing me head back when he finally wraps his fingers around me cock again. I topple over the edge with a low moan and pull him with me as I clench around him. He lets himself fall on top of me, making me catch him, his chest heaving as sparks still fly through my body. I flinch when he pulls out, then wrap an arm around him to keep him there.

I skip my day at the studio altogether after that. Sweaty and satiated, we shower together, then lounge in bed for a while, sharing lazy kisses. I’m not going to lie, it feels like everything we deserved after the past few weeks. Al looks calm as his head rests on my shoulder, and for once, I too feel completely at ease. I doze off at one point, and by the time I wake up he’s donning his running gear, and is about to go outside. He blows me a cheeky kiss before he leaves the room, which makes the both of us grin. I love that we can still goof around, even though we’re far past just being bezzies at this point. When I hear the front door close, I too get up reluctantly.

Against me own better judgment I settle in the study, where the half-finished arrangement for Al’s song is still resting heavily on the table. I sit on the sofa for a while and eat a few cold pancakes, all the while staring at that damned sheet of paper. I despise it every bit as much as I did the last time I looked at it. The loudness of its sound is a mockery of Alex’ honesty. It screams right over the words he so carefully put onto paper, taking all its depth away from it and turning his song into a soulless scream for help. Nothing about it reminds me of the way he looked in bed just now, exuding confidence and joie de vivre. I don’t want to reduce him to the numb shell he reduced himself to in his lyrics. I realise that he’s written it like that to get his thoughts out of his head, but that doesn’t mean I should go along with it and make it worse. Hell, the angry sound of it has been riling _me_ up like mad, and I can’t imagine how much worse it’d be for Al himself if he were to play it on a bad day. It’s the last thing I want out of my part of the song. Just because he needs a song to get it all out doesn’t mean it can’t be one to ease the pain a little at the same time.

Without a moment’s hesitation I pick up my arrangement and rip it to shreds. I crumple it up in a tightly balled fist, then toss it into the bin. It feels like a weight lifts off my chest as soon as it lands. I’m sure Al would like whatever it is that I come up with, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be the shitshow I just got rid of. I grab my phone, open up the file with his lyrics and sit down on the sofa, where I read his text and again. It’s a sad, heart-wrenching bunch of words and as much as I appreciate Alex’ writing skills, I’m not sure I appreciate this particular text. It makes me think of my outburst at the therapist’s office, and although I know now that Al’s been doing much better, his lyrics prove that the past few months happened; that really, he wasn’t doing too great for quite some time.

Today however, I don’t feel half as insecure about the song. I’m calmer. I’m still sleepy too, which being shagged until I saw stars didn’t exactly help with, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish Al was here for another round. It’s a much better mindset to be in to write a song, especially this one. I don’t feel angry, nor powerless, when I think about Al in his favourite chair this time and most of all, I don’t feel like I should make his song even more depressing by matching the lyrics with that raw, loud and angry sound I initially meant for it to have. With our laughter and the kisses from earlier still in the back of me mind, I read the text one more time, strumming along with the words more or less at random. The melody starts out much more gentle this time. It lingers and drifts reassuringly along with the words, rather than delivering the staccato punches it did before, like blows to the chest. I sink into the pillows as I play it once more, and again. It seems a bit unfair to Al to bend his lyrics like that when they were so clearly meant to go with a sound equally depressing, but I don’t have the heart to indulge him. So I pour myself a few fingers of whisky, curl up on the sofa and get back to work, much more persistent this time. Slowly but surely, I manage to build a solid piece of music around the words. With lyrics that raw and a sound that reassuring it starts to turn into something akin a duet between his voice and my guitar. It’s something that’s completely out of my comfort zone. Quiet ballads have never really been my thing, but it takes me surprisingly little effort to keep the music gentle. I can’t help but enjoy it, and spend hours upon hours perfecting it. By the time Al knocks on the door and asks about dinner I tell him I’ll pass, and later, when he comes upstairs again to go to bed, I kiss him and tell him I’ll join him soon. He leaves me behind with a knowing smile.

When the day finally comes that we take Alex’ song to the studio together I’m nervous as hell. I don’t remember ever having been nervous when writing with him before. He hasn’t heard the new arrangement yet and I’m more than a little self-conscious about showing him the outcome. It’s _his_ song after all, and I went ahead and more or less changed its meaning.

Al looks gorgeous, just like last time we went to the studio together. His legs are clad in tight black jeans, his hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a wine red Fred Perry shirt that I strongly suspect is mine. I feel like a lovesick fool even mentioning it, but there’s that depth in his eyes that seems to be back again. Or maybe it hasn’t actually left this time. The clothes make him look the part, but the glint in those eyes proves that he’s feeling it, too.

“You look great,” I say as he sits down onto the sofa. He just smiles and watches me expectantly as I go to grab my guitar. Maybe he doesn’t believe me, but that’s fine for now. As long as he’s heard me say it. I take my guitar out of its case and glance up at him briefly.

“So I tried a few things,” I tell him, “but if it’s shite, you should feel free to write something new, alright? ‘s more your thing, anyway, being I the studio and what have you.”

“Mi.” Alex stands, his figure much more impressive now that he seems to be safely situated inside himself again. He curls a hand around my jaw and for a moment I think he’ll kiss me, but he doesn’t.

“You’re brilliant, alright?” he murmurs instead. His fingers graze my cheek before he steps back. “And I asked you to write the music because I didn’t want it to just be my song. The past months have been wretched, you and I both know that. I didn’t write the song to be all poetic about that. It’s not poetic. I just wanted it out, that’s all. You doing the music – ” He moves his hand to my shoulder – “You writing the music gives it depth. Without that it’s just – well, I don’t know, do I. Not much, anyway.” He trails his fingers over my shoulder, over my bicep, staring at his own hand as he does so. Sometimes it really is beyond me how he can be so eloquent in his writing when he has so much trouble explaining himself on the spot.

“There’s multiple layers to any story,” is what he settles on. “Everyone has heard mine already. We’ve all heard a thousand songs about people being numb. I’d like to hear your side. I much prefer your side of any story, usually.”

I want to tell him that he’s not making any sense, but I also know that he actually likes listening to my stories. I know perfectly well that I tend to talk too much, but Al has never once asked me to stop. He sort of just goes with it whenever I think of something to tell him, no matter how mundane.

“It’s a bit of a boring side to the story this time,” I tell him. “It’s not half as fucked up as what you wrote, I’m afraid.”

Alex smirks. “Did you really just call me fucked up?” His eyes widen in mock-indignation and I can’t help but laugh. I adore him, I really do.

“Maybe I did,” I grin. “So I wrote something boring to make you feel a little less fucked up when you’re singing it. It’s kind of like a duet of sorts, if you will.”

Al looks a little uncertain, I can tell by the way he bites his lip and searches my face for further clues. “Yeah, alreyt,” he says, slowly. “Okay. I suppose I can see that.”

Except from the look in his eyes, he clearly can’t. At least I’m not the only one who’s insecure at this point.

“I’ll just play it for you,” I say. “It’ll probably show you what I mean. So – you just sit down. I’ll play the whole thing once – ”

“And you’ll sing it, right? I’d like to hear the full thing.”

I nod stiffly. “Fine. And I’ll sing it. But you have to be honest. If you don’t like it, tell me.” And with that, I wrap my fingers around the neck of my guitar, and there I go.

Alex barely moves a muscle during the entire thing. He just sits there, watching my hands move over the strings with a faraway look in his eyes that tells me he’s listening rather than looking. His gaze hardens as I continue, and his lips form a thin line. Either the words or the music, or the combination of both, is getting to him. The sting in his words is still very much present – it’s still sad and angry and all the things he meant to get out of his system – but my chords linger like the kisses I gave him before he went on stage for the very last Monkeys gig of the tour, when he was at his worst and all I wanted to do was to tell him that he was safe. The music doesn’t change how much his words hurt, but it’s right there in the background, calming the storm a little.

Alex’ teeth press into his lower lip. He searches my gaze with his own, and the hard look in his eyes – rather than making me doubt what I did – assures me that I did the right thing. When I finish, Al remains silent for a moment. He runs a hand through his carefully styled hair, making a strand fall in front of his eyes, and smoothens an invisible crease in his shirt. Then, he blurts out: “You _changed_ it.” It’s that tone laced with mock-indignation again, but there’s something else there. I’m not sure if it’s actual indignation, but it might very well be. His frown deepens. He still looks a little distant, as if he’s replaying the song in his head, which, knowing him, he probably is.

“That’s not playing by the rules, Mi. I meant to ask for your take on the story; not an entirely different story.” He gets up, but doesn’t go anywhere. He just stands there, shrugs his shoulders and adds, after an uncomfortable silence: “I expected you to come up with something loud. You _like_ loud. It was supposed to be harsh; I wanted it to sting, so that if I ever feel like that again and sing it, I get to actually feel something.”

I arch an eyebrow, but don’t let him phase me. “No offence, but you look like it stung plenty,” I tell him, calmly. He just shrugs his shoulders again.

“The song’s just a bit more balanced now,” I go on to say. “Those words – well, they’re not very nice words, are they. They made me angry just reading them, so you definitely achieved what you set out to do. I get that it’s meant to make you feel again, so I just wrote something to soothe the burn a bit. To remind you of good things, at the same time. That’s all.” That, and maybe it sort of reminds me that he’ll be fine in the end. There’s nothing wrong with being a little selfish.

There’s a long silence after that. I’m almost starting to think that maybe I should have just gone with the terrible first version when he suddenly steps forward and kisses me hard. It’s over as sudden as it starts, before I even get the chance to reciprocate.

“’s gonna have to be a Puppets song then, isn’t it,” he says dryly. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m playing that alone. I’m not having a duet with _me_.”

I chuckle humourlessly, unsure of what he thinks of it still. He tries to smooth the stray strand of hair back again, looking suddenly tired. I find myself hoping that he won’t have to sing the stupid song a lot; it’s messing him up already. But then he smiles.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes on me chest. “For being a stubborn fucker. Should have seen it coming, really.”

And really, he should have. With a bit of a bad taste in my mouth still, I decide to call it a day in the studio and start packing my things. On our way to my car, Alex stays so close that our shoulders touch, and puts both our guitars in the trunk as I settle in the driver’s seat. I barely get any time to mentally berate myself for ruining this before he gets in next to me and stares ahead of us thoughtfully.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, turning the car onto the road. I’m really not sure I want to know.

“Not a lot,” He muses. “Except that I really, genuinely like what you did with it. It made it better. Both the song and the rest of it, if you know what I mean. I don’t think I was clear enough about that just now.”

I give him a quick glance. “You told me, more or less.”

Al smiles tightly. “More or less. I always say things more or less, don’t I. It’s better when I actually say them.”

I nod. I can hardly disagree with that. Still – “I know what you mean most of the time. I just took a bit of a gamble with the song and you seemed unsure.”

“It got to me is all,” he corrects me. “I'm really impressed, Mi, alright? It was stunning. Clever, too. Just didn’t know how to explain that to you in the moment.”

“I liked the kiss,” I say, grinning, and he rolls his eyes. “But – yeah. That’s – I’m glad you like it. Really am.”

He punches my arm. “Don’t be so modest. It doesn't suit you. It was great. You’re great.”

I happily accept the compliment.

Once we get home, Alex decides it’s time to give our little adventure from the other night a run for its money as he takes me upstairs and rides me until we’re both gasping, panting messes. We smoke cigarettes in the garden, enjoying the crisp evening air, then go inside and curl up on the sofa together, where we drink our way through two bottles of red. By the time we stumble up the stairs I’m ready for another round, and take my sweet time getting him off in bed, taking unabashed pleasure in watching him turn into a writhing mess for a second time that day. I won’t ever get enough of that. I won’t ever get enough of him. Once he’s coming down from his orgasm I kiss him, and I kiss him again; tangle our legs together under the sheets. He laughs, which really just makes me smile. After months of not having heard that sound – after months of trying to get any emotional response out of him – that is the best bloody sound there is. I kiss him once more, and he hums quietly, wrapping an arm loosely around my waist.

The days drift by comfortably after that. Alex’ bad days are few and far in between by now, and he starts to get his life back on track, starting from the point where he has to text most of his friends to explain weeks of radio silence. He’s even taken it upon himself to look into holiday destinations. It’s as if he’s finally ready to take some proper time off and do what he enjoys. The cloud above the house seems to have finally gone. It was about time, too.

It’s on a quiet Saturday when he catches me by surprise. It's one of those rare bad days. He spends hours watching telly and trying to simply sleep it off, the latter bugging me more than I try to let on. I spend my day working out and working on my music from home, but make sure he eats breakfast, and then lunch, but mostly he just sleeps and watches telly. It’s not by far as bad as it used to be, and I can tell that he’s not actually completely numb, as he laughs wholeheartedly at the horrible film he’s watching. It’s just an off day; it’s just bad weather. He can handle it. Still, I expect it to take him a couple of days, so it surprises me when in the early evening he suddenly appears in the study, wearing a full suit. I arch an eyebrow at him, almost thinking that this is somehow part of it; that he’s about to have a breakdown any minute. But he just smiles tiredly and tells me: “Don’t look so spooked.”

I set my guitar aside and look him up and down unabashedly. “What this, then?” I ask. “Special occasion?”

Alex shrugs. “I promised I’d take you out to dinner some time ago, didn’t I. I reserved a table at that posh Italian place you like.”

For a moment I’m not sure what to say, and I decide that pretending that this isn’t a big deal is probably the way to go. I flash him a smile. “Does this mean you’re finally taking me out on a proper date, hm?” I ask, slowly getting up from where I’m sat on the sofa. “I’m ever so honoured, Mr Turner.”

He brings up a hand to punch me in the shoulder, but changes his mind and settles for rolling his eyes at me instead. “Well, it was about time, wasn’t it,” he says. “We’ve been living together for a while now. It’s high time I start thinking of ways to make you stay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I blurt out, even though he’s sort of joking, in his own Alex on a bad day kind of way. “That’s the last thing you should be worried about.”

He falls silent for a moment. Then, he murmurs: “Yeah. I know that, don't I.”

I can’t really believe me ears, but I pretend like nothing happened, and nod. “I’ll go change,” I tell him. “And Al?”

He raises his eyebrows in question, and I smile at him. “Thanks.”

He nods, knowing exactly what I mean. “It’s about time I made good on my promise,” he says. “Go on, then. Go change. You don’t know half how hard it was to get this table at a week’s notice.”

“I bet,” I grin. “You probably just told them who you are.”

A slight blush creeps up his cheeks and I shake my head, smiling. “You’re the worst. I love you.”

He makes a face. “We’ll be late. If they’ve already given our table to someone else by the time we show up, you’ll be the one driving us to McDonald’s.” He’s still blushing, and it takes all my willpower not to tease him some more.

“Even McDonald’s would feel like a five star restaurant with you there, baby,” I grin. I can’t help meself, especially because he’s such an easy target. I enjoy the incredulous look on his face for a moment, then turn around before he can make a retort. I leave the room with an actual spring in my step, my mind already on the ridiculously romantic evening that I’m sure will follow. I’ve always enjoyed wining and dining my dates, but being in that position meself is already making me feel strangely giddy. I swear Al knows me better than I do meself at times. I change into a navy blue suit that I find hidden somewhere in the back of my closet, behind Al’s stuff, which makes me smile. This is good. All of it is genuinely, honestly good. It's such a relief to see him do better, too. Today's bad day was nothing compared to how distant he used to be. He's Al again, even on bad days, and let's be fucking honest here, I'm so glad. I'm so glad to have him back.

I hum under my breath while I get ready, taking my time despite Al's warning. I go the whole nine yards, picking out a nice shirt to go with the suit, and shoes that shine just a little too brightly. Before long, Al comes to see what's taking so long. He stops in his tracks in the doorway, puffing out an amused laugh. Resting his shoulder against the doorframe, he watches me, and I wink at him in the mirror. It makes him laugh out loud and shake his head, and _I adore him_. And really, I'm not lying when I say it this time: Life’s treating me pretty damn well. I have Al here with me, I’m making music again, I’m calm again. And we’ll be fine, Al and I. We’ll always be fine in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's about it for this series. I'm not sure if I should've written four parts in the end, but writing all four of them made me feel better, so I'm only a bit sorry. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave suggestions or prompts below (for things that aren't this strange, depressing series, perhaps ;) ) or on Tumblr @memoiriarty. Thanks so much for reading. :)


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